


take the leap

by penelopes



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 02:16:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penelopes/pseuds/penelopes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“Nice to meet you, Princess.” He stands up. God, he’s tall. Like a tall glass of water, she thinks. And promptly wants to die a horrible death.</em><br/><br/><em>“Do you have a name?” She asks, trying again to gain her footing in this conversation. She came looking for a 20th century poet and somehow found a fucking Greek god lookalike. What the fuck is this day. What the fuck is her life.</em><br/><br/>Or: Clarke is a pre-med student who has a terrible awful horrible poetry assignment and begrudgingly goes to the library to work on it where she meets Bellamy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take the leap

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiii, I wrote this nearly a year ago and finally decided to get it out of my docs! 
> 
> It's short and simple; I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Any mistakes are my own. And I actually really fucking love poetry!

It’s half past nine at night, Clarke’s exhausted from two three-hour labs back to back, and she thinks this assignment for her Poetry in English Literature class can go fuck itself. She can list off the top of her head at least five places she’d rather be than the library on a Friday night; her bed is number one, top of the list, in all caps, underlined, and if she hasn’t lost her lucky highlighter, then fucking _highlighted_.

The poetry section is on the second level of the library and after she’s trekked up a million steps, she finds the floor nearly desolate. The lights are flickering in one corner because of course they are. Because apparently Clarke really is living in her own personal horror film. Honestly. Fuck this entire assignment and night.

As it turns out, there are a few other people at the tables with books and binders and Starbucks coffee cups spread across the entire surface of the tables. Clarke understands the other students’ pain; she has course work steadily piling up back at her dorm and the last thing she needs to worry about is an assignment for a class she doesn’t even _need._

She takes an empty table near where the aisles of books start, depositing her bag and pulling out the assignment sheet for class. After looking over it, it seems simple enough: _choose a poem from any 20th century poet and pick it apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left but a half-assed student analysis of the poem._ Those are Clarke’s words, not her professor’s, but that’s the jist of it. Clarke doesn’t hate her English class, but she’d much rather spend her time in the lab or take another Human Anatomy and Physiology class. She likes poetry about as much as she likes when Wells changes his contact from _Wells Jahahahaha_ in her phone back to just _Wells Jaha._  Which is to say, not at all.

 _Wells Jahahahaha_ is comedic gold and if her best friend can’t understand that then not only is he an idiot, but he’s also an idiot who doesn’t know a good joke when it tacks itself on the end of his name.

Anyway.

Clarke walks down the aisles of shelves until she finds the poetry section. There are rows and rows of tall dusty bookshelves reaching nearly to the back wall. She turns on the first aisle, focused on the books to her right, because the books behind her evidently belong to a different section.

Mentally she runs through a list of 20th century poets from class and all she can think of is ee cummings, so she finds where the Cs begin. She walks down the aisle looking over Atwood and Browning until she finds what she’s looking for. She pulls down a book of poems and while she’s flipping through the pages, she hears someone clear their throat. It startles her so badly she nearly brains herself on the shelf when she jumps.

The voice suddenly laughs at her and when she gains a little bit of composure she looks down to see a guy sitting on the floor, propped up against the bookshelf opposite the poetry one, a book resting open in his lap. He’s looking up at Clarke with a smirk on his face, remnants of a laugh still on his mouth. He’s attractive in a way she isn’t used to. All the other guys at Ark University are usually wearing pressed khakis or gym shorts with socks pulled up past acceptable. From what she can see, he’s got a nice face—dark hair tussled and falling over his forehead a bit, a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, a wide set jaw, a deep dimple in his chin, and eyes the colour of chocolate. His skin is darker than hers, pretty in a smooth, milky way. He’s wearing a grey shirt that stretches across a nice set of shoulders, and dark washed jeans. Clarke has been staring for _far_ too long, Jesus Christ.

This guy has long since stopped laughing; instead, he is smirking something terrible up at Clarke who probably looks a bit like a fish opening and closing her mouth. She shakes herself out of her daze to speak. “You scared me, is all.” She says, immediately trying to gain the upper hand, find her resolve. She is an intelligent pre-med student who’s unlucky enough to have to read ee cummings’ poetry all night, she will not let an attractive guy _sitting on the floor_ make her feel stupid.

“Sorry, Princess.” He replies, and somehow? Somehow, he is _still_ smirking. How do you do words with a permanent smirk? she wants to ask. She doesn't though because the way he says princess sends a chill down her spine, makes her palms sweat just a little. Who does this stranger think he is?

She rolls her eyes, “Don’t call me that. My name is _Clarke_. Clarke Griffin.” Her grip on the book tightens just a little when he chuckles.

“Nice to meet you, Princess.” He stands up. God, he’s tall. Like a tall glass of water, she thinks. And promptly wants to die a horrible death.

“Do you have a name?” She asks, trying again to gain her footing in this conversation. She came looking for a 20th century poet and somehow found a fucking Greek god lookalike. What the fuck is this day. What the fuck is her life.

“Bellamy Blake,” he says around a smirk. Does he ever stop smirking? she wonders. Christ. Is he always so attractive while he does it?

It has been a long day. A loooooong day, Clarke thinks, that must be why she’s suddenly acting like she’s an imbecile incapable of talking to a guy. An unnecessarily attractive smug guy she’d like to punch in the mouth. With her mouth. What the _fuck_ , Clarke.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she gets back to her dorm, she’s going to give herself a stern talking to. Before she can plan what exactly she’s going to say, she’s pulled from her reverie because Bellamy is chuckling. Her eyes immediately snap open and she can feel her cheeks redden at being caught out.

“You okay, Princess?” He’s leaning against the bookshelf now, a copy of _Norse Gods_ tucked between his crossed arm and chest. She would’ve pegged him for Greek Mythology. Maybe he’s branching out a bit. Or, maybe since she knows nothing about him, he’s just a creepy guy who lurks around the back shelves of the second floor. She doesn’t know.

“You’re not some creep who’s going to follow me back to my dorm, are you? Because I’ve had a really shit day and I don’t want to have to mace you.”

That earns her a deep laugh and god, _fuck_ her, his smile dimples across his face. “No,” he says around a chuckle, “just your typical history major who’s got a paper due next week. Took a break, though.” He waves his book around a little to demonstrate that _Norse Gods_ is how he spends his free time. _What a nerd_ , Clarke thinks. Then her brain promptly reminds her that she studies anatomy for fun.

“Nice,” she says, smiling smartly. There’s a beat of silence, and she really doesn't know why she does it, but the next words out of her mouth are, “Know anything about 20th century poetry? Cummings, in particular?” Which immediately earns her another smirk. She can only roll her eyes. Maybe she walked into that one.

He seems to compose himself and respond, “Actually, a little. What’ve you got to do?”

She wasn’t expecting him to be so willing to help, but _of course_ he knows a little about poetry, he’s been sat reading mythology for leisure.

She clears her throat, “Pick a poem and analyze it. Seems simple, right, except I hate poetry. Especially this class.” She’s not so prideful that she won’t accept help if this guy is offering it. Anything to get back home and in bed as quickly as possible.

“Ah, I see. You’re one of those.” He says, one corner of his mouth lifting a little. “Pre-law, yeah? No. Maybe pre-med?” He scoffs, “you’re all the same, aren’t you? Worried about labs and anatomy and medicine; you’ve got no time for simple things like _poetry_.” He’s teasing her; she can tell by the lilt in his voice and his playful smile.

“Keep talking like that and you’ll regret it when you come into Ark Memorial with a broken bone or a bout of pneumonia and I’m your doctor.” She smirks at him; she can dish it out right back.

He laughs, “I don’t get sick, Princess. Indestructible, me.” His smile pleases her down to the pit of her stomach; it feels like there are monster butterflies fluttering around. _How unfortunate_ , she thinks.

She rolls her eyes and clears her throat. _Compose yourself_ , Clarke. “You gonna help me with this, or not?” She raises an eyebrow at him in a challenge.

He sweeps his arm out as if to say ‘lead the way’ in answer.

She leads him out of the aisle back towards the table where she dropped off her belongings. Most of the students have cleared out except for the lone boy in the far corner engrossed in his laptop. Bellamy sits right beside her and takes the book of poems out of her hand.

He must really know what he’s looking for, she thinks. He points out a few poems that are his favourite, commenting on Cummings’ manipulation of punctuation and refrain. He _actually_ uses words like refrain and tries to explain the different types of rhyme. She doesn't really pay attention to the content, but she could probably listen to his thick steady voice forever. She suddenly has the image of lying about in her dorm room listening to him patter on about his lectures or read off a list of all 206 bones in the human body. She already knows them, but she’d listen to him tell her again. And _what the fuck_ , Clarke. She very nearly bangs her head against the table repeatedly. It’s been such a long day; a terribly long, hectic, stressful day and if Bellamy presses his thigh against hers one more fucking time, she is going to lose it.

It’s a heady feeling, being so close to someone and feeling like he has the upper hand. Like with one breath Bellamy could make her crumble. Christ, she’s got to get it together.

Bellamy is going on about the significance of “In Just-” and jotting down notes in her notebook. His handwriting is boyish, letters small and compressed and scratchy. If she can focus on that and not the heat of him so close to her and the timbre of his voice, she’ll be all right. She doesn’t even know this guy, God, it can’t be that hard.

*

An hour later it proves to be very difficult to focus solely on 20th century poetry when Bellamy’s voice has nearly lulled her to sleep. Also, his shoulder is very comfortable so it seems. Fuck, did she actually fall asleep?

She jerks awake suddenly, sitting up and straightening out her clothes. Her cheeks are hot and she can’t believe she fell asleep while Bellamy was trying to help her. She feels bad and feels even worse when she looks over and Bellamy’s got a small, sweet smile on his face.

“Didn't wanna wake you. ” And God, there’s that smile again. Clarke is going to die probably and it’s going to be because of Bellamy Blake. And the fact that she can’t get her shit together. She’ll blame Bellamy, though.

She smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, long day.”

“It’s okay. Princesses have to get their sleep,” he teases.

She rolls her eyes and shoves at his shoulder, “God, you’re the worst.”

“Just _awful_. So awful that I finished your analysis for you, so all you’ve got to do is make it look pretty. I _am_ the worst, aren’t I?”

She deflates at that. Clarke is so elated that she could probably kiss him. She’d like to. She won’t though. Nope. Not yet, at least.

“Thanks, Bellamy, so much. Honestly I don’t know how to thank you—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, cutting her off. “I’m sure you’ll find a way. The caff actually has really good food and I'm a cheap date.” Then he fucking _winks_. Clarke is dying slowly.

She knows she’s blushing which only makes her blush more. Christ, a date. She’s only had a date with her textbooks all semester. Maybe it’s time she switches that up. “Just so happens that I _love_ the caff,” she says around a smile.

The smile he returns brightens her entire day.

*

She makes it back to her dorm with Bellamy’s number saved in her phone and a smile on her face. The monster butterflies are back and are probably going to make their way into her chest cavity. Christ, she really needs to study. She’ll text Bellamy in the morning.


End file.
